Blúiríní

 

Níl ní ar bith dá ngintear nach ó rúta ("stock") éigin a gintear é, cuirim i gcás gur fás talmhaí nó créatúir análacha iad, amhail agus go bhfuil a rúta féin ó nádúir i ngach ní, agus a bhfréamhacha féin ag gach rúta, agus is uathu seo a thagas meidhir (ie. fuinneamh), mian agus fonn. Agus ní thuigeann daoine seo, cé go bhfuil sé follas go leor dá gcéadfaí, gur ghnáthfhocal ag na sinsir  le gach ní dá leanadh béasa a  shinsear: “ Thug sé ó rúta leis é, mar thug an mhuc an rútáil.”

d117, Fealsúnacht Aodh Mhic Dhomhnaill, éag. Colm Beckett, an Clóchomhar, 1967.

(Fear ó Dhroim Conrach, tuaisceart na Mí ab ea Aodh, 1802-1867. Múinteoir, fear láimscribhinni, agus file ab ea é. Chuidigh sé le Roibeard Mac Adhaimh (Robert Adams), Protastúnach ó Bhéal Feirste, láimhscribhinni agus ceol a chruinniú. Cara le Peadar O Gealagáin é.)

 

Hallaig

Ceann de mhór-dánta ár linne, dár liom. Ag tagairt do lomadh Oileán Ratharsair le linn an Dara Cogadh Domhanda, ag soláthar adhmaid do Arm Shasana atá an file, Sorley MacLean. (Coill bheithe a bhí ann.) Ag tagairt freisin atá do bhanú an Oileán féin atá. Níl anso agam ach cuid bheag den dán.

 

Tha búird is táirnean air an uinneig                                               (“boards”: tairní)

Troimh m’ faca mi ‘n Aird an Iar                                                   (tríd a bhfeaca mé)

‘s tha mo ghaol aig Allt Hallaig                                                      (grá)

‘na craoibh bheithe, ‘s bha i riamh…                                              (ina crann: sí)

 

Fuirichidh me ris a’ bheithe                                                            (fanfaidh mé leis an gcoill)

Gus an tig i amach an Cárn,                                                            (nó go dtiocfaidh sí)

Gus am bi am bearradh uile                                                            (nó go mbeidh: “ridge”)

O Bheinn na Lice f’s sgáil.                                                             (faoina)

 

Mura tig ‘s ann theárnas mi a Hallaig                                             (Muna dtagann: “will go”; do)

A dh’ionnsaigh sábaid nam marbh,                                                 (do: Sabath)

Far a bheil an sluagh a’ tathaich,                                                     (mar a bhfuil: san áit a bhfuil: ag tathú)

Gach aon ghinealach a’ dh’fhalbh.                                                  (glún a d’imigh)

Tha iad fhathast ann a Hallaig,                                                        ( fós, i) 

Clann Ghill-Eain ‘s Clann MhicLeóid,

Na bha ann ri linn Mhic Ghille-Chaluim                                        (a raibh anmn le linn)

Chunnacas na mairbh beó.

 

Na fir nan laighe air an lianag                                                         (ina luí: ar, “green”)

Aig ceann gach taighe a bh’ ann,                                                     (ag: a bhí ann)

Na h-igheanan ‘nan coille-bheithe,                                                 (na cailíní: in a)

Direach an druim, crom an ceann.                                                  (a ndromanna: a gcinn)

 

(d. 143 agus 145, Reothairt is Contraigh: Taghadh de Dháin 1932-1972, Canongate, 1977)

Is amlaidh gur thosnaigh sé i gceart ar an bhfilíocht nuair a thit sé  i ngrá le Nessa Ní Sheaghdha, ban-sgoláire Eireannach a bhuail leis agus iad araon in Edinburgh.

 

Sean -fhocail ó Micheál óg O Longáin’s Collection of Irish Proverbs, éagarthóir Tomás O Rathaile.  

 (Sean-fhocail iad so thíos a chruinnigh Tomás O Rathaile féin ón litríocht)

 

Ní ar aoinchois a tháinig (Naomh) Pádraig go hEirinn.

Námhaid ceard, muna gcleachtar.

Is leor ó dhuine  a dhícheall.

Coileán gach cú go (until)  fiach

Ní ghabhann dorn dúnta seabhac

Colann gan ceann duine gan anam-charaid.

 Bluirín ó Eachtra an Mhadra Maoil, (Two Arthurian Romances, ed. R.A. Macalister, 1908), d 10

Chuireas litriú an lae inniú, mar déarfá, ar cuid de na focail.

(Tá Rí Artúir agus a chuid ridiri fagtha ag laoch anaithnid ceangailte sa choill.)

“Is trua an gníomh so do tharla dhuinn,” ar sé (an Rí), “oir da bhfeasadís bantracht agus ban-dhala Dúna an Halla Dheirg ar mbeith (that we are) mar so, do dhéanfaidís baol mhaghaidh agus fonóide dínn agus do chuirfidís ar mí-chliú agus ar meatacht fa’n domhan mór uile, agus ní thabhraidís taobha frinn (linn) go bruinne an bhrátha agus go foircheann an bheatha. Agus is é is indéanta (possible) dhúinn, fanúint san ionad so, go bhfaighimid neach éigin don Adhaimh-Chloinn do bhearfas furtach nó fóirthint dhúinn ó’n móir-éigean so ina bhfuilimid.”

Ciodhtracht (However) , do bhíodar amhlaidh sin go fuinneadh néill nóna agus go húr-thosach na hoíche gan furtacht nó fóirthint: gur labhair an Rí le Balbhuidh (Gawain), agus is é do ráidh:

“A Dhalta dhíl-ghrádaigh,” ar sé, “Tá éigean is mó ná gach éigean orm-sa, óir tá teasbhac thirim tarta agus rian rabhartha ró-dhein iótan (“trace of a violent storm of drought”) orm, agus gan cara nó compánach i bhfogus dhamh do bhearadh cosc m’iótan chugham.”

“A Oide iomhain,” arsa Balbhuidh, “dá dtugtaoi-se (if you would give) t’arm agus eidheach damh-sa agus eolas d’ionnsaí tiobraide, do rachainn ar chionn dighe dhuit gan moil.”

“A Dhalta dhil-ghrádhaigh, “ar an Rí, “an tiobraid is goire dhúinn anso, níl sa domhan ionad in ar (in which is) lia geilte glinne  agus deamhain aeir agus arrachtaigh éig-cheillidhe fuathmhara fíor-ghránna ina dtimpeall ach í…”

Cuid de sgéal ó Mháiréad Ní Mhionacháin, Dhá Dhrom Amuigh, Béara (Béarach Mná ag Caint, Cló Iar-Chonnachta, 1999)

 …Bhíodh comhluadar gach aon oíche acu ansan, agus bhíodh rinnce agus ceol – puss music – nuair a bhí an máistreás ann. Bhídís ann deireannach ansan, agus d’fhanadh sé seo (mo dhriotháir) deireanach, mar do bhí dúil ins na hamhráinaibh (dative case) agus sa chaitheamh aimsire aige. Thug sé athghearr air ansan ó’n dtigh sin chun dul abhaile, agus nuair  a tháinig sé tamall den tslí—ní raibh sé rófhada – chuala sé an tiomáint is an ceol roimis. Well, shuigh sé anuas: bhí claí mar sin, agus steip ag dul trasna an chlaí, agus chuir sé cos leis thar an gclaí agus do shuigh sé síos ag eisteacht leis an gceol a bhí tamall bhuaidh, timpeall, is dócha, cúig nó sé de phéirsibh (dative). Dá gcimeádfadh sé an cosán, do thagfadh sé díreach mar a rabhadar (where they were). Ach níor dhein: do thug sé cosán eile timpeall air…

Does It Matter (I am talking about Irish and Gaelic)

 

Given all the awful, horrifying things happening in the world, and the apparently never-ending challenges of life, who cares about Irish (and Scots Gaelic, Breton etc.)?

An obscure language, barely-spoken anymore, with no apparent relevance to anything important or even half-important? Sure, maybe as a hobby and a way to pass the time that would otherwise be spent wandering the Web… Yeah, Irish: other people do Indonesian cooking or chess or the history of punk rock or knitting and it’s all cool, if you’re into it. You know: hobbies.

Nothing against knitting or the rest, but I think Irish does matter, and not as a hobby. I think that an involvement in and attention to the language and culture put us right there in the middle of important stuff happening in the world.

It can easily be just a hobby, of course, and a fascinating one, but look a little deeper and you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of somebody who knows a lot about butterflies or the Greenland glaciers or family farms in the U.S.

I don’t mean that Irish is threatened with extinction and we’ve got to fight for it. That is a fact, and I respect Kneecap, An Dream Dearg, etc, but I’m not sure about the “fighting” part. Maybe cultivating it instead? Deeply in our own lives?

Alright, but doesn’t that just bring us back to hobbies, personal growth and so on? Add some nice Irish to your day and you’ll be a finer person?

Knitting can be very satisfying and maybe it’s a path to understanding, but Irish traditionally offered a whole different way of seeing: a way of seeing that’s almost totally at odds with the way our society has been going.

That’s not because of Is and Tá or anything intrinsic to the language. I think it’s because Ireland and Highland Scotland were off on the margins, away in the West there, and didn’t matter much to anybody until, say, the 16^th century. Society on a local level was archaic in the same way that, say, Sami culture was archaic, People kept thinking in old ways and doing things in old ways. It was only when manic, explosive and very determined Tudor English society discovered new ways of making the world better and more controlled and more profitable, that things seriously changed.

*I tried to bring the Youtube video (Lux Prize 2017 "Sami Blod") here but failed._

Irish and Highland  (and Breton and Welsh etc. etc.) life was intensively local. The culture connected people to place in many ways: through awareness of the Otherworld (“Fairy Queens” and so on):  through awareness of ongoing human/place interaction evidenced everyday by the dense net of ancient and modern place name stories; through the need to respect the land that nourished, and the need to respect the people around you. (What do I mean by that? You couldn’t just dump chemical fertilizer on the fields if you wrecked the soil, or just go shopping. You couldn’t be an asshole and alienate your neighbours, then go get a job in Dublin.)

People lived in place. You could even say they were a place, and part of the weave of life there. Many old stories bear witness to the fact that these people’s greatest terror was exile, even exile after death if they were buried somewhere else. Sure, ambitious kings rode around sometimes doing stuff with swords, but most of the time, you could just look the other way. Life went on.

(Why does place matter? I think it matters because we live in a place, and not just “Ireland” or “America” or “Earth”, and definitely not on the internet. There is a pleasure in being somewhere that’s not just a node in the international distribution system. There is a pleasure in getting to know a place through the seasons and through the years.  There is a deep pleasure in getting your hands in the dirt: a pleasure unknown otherwise.)

The old ways became very difficult after the Tudor conquest and ongoing reorganization of Ireland (and the Highlands in the 18^th century) into a system whose purpose was to produce wealth for the wealthy, and massive food exports to England, the armed forces and Caribbean colonies. It was a meat grinder and ongoing social trauma for everybody but the people who staffed and owned the new system which, yes, did include some Irish people. A somewhat stable new English-speaking society of big farmers was in place by, say, 1880, but the effects of trauma lurked beneath the surface.

Change happened slower where profits came harder, and Irish and Highland people often recreated versions of local traditional societies there whenever nobody was looking…until they couldn’t or didn’t want to, because, face it, respect and money and  ongoing access to food can be very pleasant.

Today it looks like we are at the very end of the story.

There are people who’ll disagree. “Look at all the people who can speak some Irish!” they say, ad yes, there’s a lot more people who can, compared to the Eighties or whatever.

There’s “speaking” and there’s “speaking”, though. I can translate my Irish or English thoughts into French words if I have to, but I don’t have any feel for French, don’t know much about it or the communities that speak it, and don’t care that much. Do I “speak French”? Depends what you mean by “speak”. Yes, but mostly No.

A lot of the people who “know Irish” today in Ireland are in a similar position.

Maybe that’s not a big deal, but Irish is/was so rich a language that wooden leg Irish (Mac Grianna’s term) is sort of a shame, especially since it may replace real Irish.

Irish-speaking communities had deep deep roots in the earth and in place. They connected speakers to all the generations that came before and to those people’s accumulated humanity, wisdom and humour. The language itself made distinctions in many areas that “Modern” languages do not, thus (I would argue) setting its speakers up to perceive aspects of the sky and weather and ground and emotion and…a lot of things, that Modern language speakers often do not.

Traditional Irish-speakers made poor bureaucrats, administrators and payment managers. It was/is a face-to-face language: a concrete yet suggestive language: an old language.

There is also the fact that it sings to some of us in wonderful and very moving way that English or French do not, and speaks uniquely to the heart. I don’t know if that’s ancestry or what, and I’m entirely willing to agree that Mandan and North Frisian etc. do the same for other people.
 

Irish and Gaelic are of particular value and relevance because our society has been headed in a particular direction for a long time, and we now seem to be entering into predictably very rough waters. The world itself is being ripped to shreds at macro and micro levels, and the mania for control has developed technologies to fulfill its lust for a society that is completely transparent to the people in charge: a completely regimented society.

More and more, a lot of us are already just a set of eyes and ears – a mind – wandering at large online and offline in a universe of representations, seeking to enact our desires. Other people are present mostly as representations. Things are representations. Animals are. It’s all representations and nothing really exists except my perception, my desire, call it into existance.

In the worst days of Chinese domination of Tibet, you could be imprisoned if an informant saw you moving your lips to say a silent mantra. People were thus driven to the very heart of their religious practice, free of all externals.

Irish and Scots Gaelic etc. etc. are maybe one secret core of humanity, reminding us that a more human, more benevolent, life was once possible. The traditional literature is vast and offers a kind of path to the very center of life. The languages in themselves tell about other ways, other possibilities. They offer deep nourishment, They are fascinating to explore, and are a storehouse of, I don’t know, wit, wisdom and humanity. They are beautiful. I hesitate to call them works of art, but they are. Speaking them well is a creative act more like singing.

I wrote years ago that there are ancient sacred groves in these languages where the corporations will never go. I no longer think that’s true, but exploring and embodying these languages is probably the truest “resistance” available to us today, along with growing food, learning the local plants and animals and what remain of local ways

So, yes, Irish and Scots Gaelic etc. do matter.

They matter.

Elena, a Rion,                                                           Elena, Queen,
tabhair duinn do laimhin tais                                 give us your soft hand,
abair nach lomchaite leat                                        tell us our frenetic poems   
ar vearsai fraoch.                                                     aren't worm or moth-eaten.
Abair nach ideal aoldaite                                        Say it's not some clapped-out            ideal                                                                                                                                                                                   
do bheal a phogadh,                                                For us to want to kiss your mouth,
lui led thaobh.                                                          lie down beside you.
 
 
   poem by Michael Davitt, translation by Paul Muldoon.

 
 

(Note: Why do I say it’s the end of the road maybe?

In Ireland, probably only on Tory island and maybe in Machaire Rabhartaigh on the mainland opposite, is Irish a common everyday language. In Scotland, there’s only Grimsay island (200 people) and maybe maybe maybe, parts of central South Uist. In Brittany, there’s only Plounevez-Moedac village, and, at a much lower level, Ile de Sein. Wales has all the villages west of Bangor and on through Eifionydd and the Lleyn peninsula in Gwynedd; bits of the mountains in south Denbighshire; Bala and west; around Dolgellau; the top of the Aman valley on the border of Carmarthenshire and Glamorgan; and Cwm Gwaun in Pembrokeshire.

Except for west Gwynedd, the others may not last.

Bleak, really bleak.

No, nothing lasts, but it seems to be lately, that it’s mainly good things don’t last.

Many other old and local languages all over the world are recently extinct or about to die, because society has no place for small or local any more, and, let’s face it, the internet can be very alluring, suggesting there is a magical world of abundance available to anyone who gives themselves to that world: first step, get your hands out of the dirt, move out of your village and forget all the old stuff.

Aislinn

 

Cuid d’amhrán a leagtar ar Eóghan Ó Donnghaile, Ard Macha (?), floruit 1680-1690 (?)… agus tuigim dó.

 

Aisling na Binne Buirbe    (ie. Benburb)

 Tuirseach dhamh (dom) ag éirghe lae

San mBinn Bhuirb mo ghné do mhill:

Aisling oíche do-chonnairc mé—

Táim dá héis go tréathlag tinn.   (ina dhiaidh)

 

An aoinbhean dob áille gné  (do ba)

Do-chonnairc mé – miste dhúinn—  (a matter of importance)

Ar bhruach inbhir na n-éigne mbán    (bradán)

Ag ní a lámh ‘s ag cornadh a cúil.

 

Folt dualach coinnleach cam

Gach lúb ann an lí an óir:

Gruaidh lí-gheal ó ndeallrann grian  (from which sun shines)

Do chlóidh mo chiall – fáth mo bhróin.

 

Dhá rosc shuaimhneach shíthe sháimh

mar ghorm-oighre ag snámh ré taobh  (taobh leis)

mailghe caol-chama nach léir

mar scríbh ghéir ar mheanram mhaoth.

 

Déad dlúth fá dheas-eagra

Cíocha ganna cruinn-gheal corr,

A bél tana nár char meang  (didn’r love)

A taobh seang tuinn-gheal trom,

 

Brat uaine dem tsról maoth-lag

‘ma taobh seaghainn sneachtaí  seang:  (uma: around, by)

Fa lór de uamhan a fhéachain   (ba)

Ó gach dealbh n-uathmhair mbeathach ann.  (due to every terrible animal embroidered there)

 

Ceinnbheirt ‘s ní féidir a dhéanamh

‘ma céibh n-alainn ndualaigh nduinn:

Fa lór de shoillse i mbrugh dhorcha

Lonnradh a cloch  corr-ghlan cruinn  (jewel(

 

(...Labhrann leí agus deireann sise leis

 

“Faoileann Tuinne m’ainm báistidh

Do-bheir gaiscigh i ndíth céille:  (tugann)

Borb na Binne m’athair-se,

‘s í mo mhathair Dealradh Gréne.

 

“Bím seal san mBinn Bhuirbse,

I Síth Dhuilbh ‘s i mBinn Eadair:

I nDún Lir do-gheibhinn fáilte

Is bím lá in Inbhear Scéine...

 

(Innsíonn dó nach mbeidh sí ag aon duine ach an té a chomhlíonadh an geas a chuirfadh sí air:

 

“Codladh ar corr gach líosa,  (summit)

Gan cliseadh re sluaghaibh diamhra:   (Ie lucht sí)

De bhiadh fós uisce is caora   (Elderberries)

Gach n-oíche go ceann bliadhna.”

 

Agus mar sin de,

(Leor nod do’n eolach: tá sé fós ar a tóir.)

 (d. 58-60, Nua-Dhuanaire, Cuid 1  (de Brún, Pádraig, Breanndán Ó Buachalla, Tomás Ó Concheanainn, Dublin Institite for Advanced Studies, 1975)

 

 

 

Apropos of nothing, some idioms from West Cork, from Peadar Ó Laoire’s book of idioms originally printed in the Cork Examiner long ago

Carbal, the roof of the mouth; the palate.

 Cás. 'Níor chás duit! lit., it would not be a matter for

you.  The meaning is, "What a chance you would

have of doing that!"  Níor chás leat, it wouldn't

be a matter of regret with you.

 

I gcás nár rud suarach é.  The phrase i gcás is

very common in Irish speech.  It generally introduces

the ultimate conclusion to which a series of state-

ments leads up.  An English speaker would say:

"and so you see that," etc.

 

Cas liom é.  Mura gcuiread-sa smacht air sin cas liom é.

If I don't tame that fellow reproach me with the fact.

 

The full expression is cas i n-asachán liom é.  People

sometimes say, in English, "they are returning it

to me."

 

Cáth, the hard shell which covers a grain of corn.  Lóchán

is the soft shell which covers the hard shell (Sg. II. 8).

 

Cath, battle.  C. do bhriseadh ar an namhaid, to defeat the

enemy.  Cath also means "a battalion," hence the

inner meaning of the preceding phrase is "break

formation" consequently "defeat."

 

<L 18>

Cáthadh, the act of winnowing corn.  It is also used to

express the blowing of snow into drifts by the wind;

lá an cháithte, the day of the drifting.  An bhfuil sé

ag sneachtadh?  Is it snowing?  Ní'l, ach tá sé ag

cáthadh.  No, but it is drifting.  The name of one of

the small particles of snow is cáithnín sneachtaidh.

(A large flake is known as lúbhóg sneachtaidh.)

 

The same word cáthadh is applied to cursing and

swearing when indulged in with rapidity.  Ag cáthadh

dhiairmíní, spitting out showers of "little divils"

— having a "divil" at every second word.  Ag

cáthadh mhionna mór, the same in regard to "big"

Cor an Aghaidh an Chaim

 

Píosa beag togtha as “Cor in Aghaidh an Chaim agus Cam in Aghaidh an Choir,” drama le Piaras de Hindeberg, character mór na hAithbheóchana um 1900, agus sagart leis: sagart a chodail amuigh. (Níl sin ceart, really. Sagart ceart ab ea é, ach ní raibh bluire de’n bhréag-uaisleacht a bhain le furmhór na sagart sa treimhse sin ann.). B’as Portlaw, Co Waterford dó, agus Gaeilge bhreá chruinn mhuintir na nDéise agus South Tipperary aige. B’fhiú a bheathaisnais a léamh ar Ainm.ie.

Tá rí Shean-Shasana (agus ní rí Sasana Nua (New England/America) anseo ag lorg uirlis saoire (mason) ar an mbean seo in Éirinn: uirlis a ndúirt a fear chéile féin leis an rí go raibh gá leis chun críoch a chur ar chaisleán a thógadar don rí... agus fios ag an saor go gcuirfidh an rí chun báis é chomh luath a’s atá críoch ar an gcaisleán. Sean sgéal i dtaobh an Gobbán Saor é seo, ar ndóigh.

Litriú faoi mar a fuaras (fuair mé) romham.

 An Rí isteach an doras chuici:

Bean: Dia a’s Muire dhuit a’s Pádraig. Nach iongantacht an brothall atá ann, buíochas le  Dia.

Rí: Is iongantach sin, an té (go) mb’éigean dó siúl do chois faoi.

B: Is fíor dhuit. A mb’fhada tháinig tú, mar sin?

R: Is fada sin, thar teorainn anoir dom.

B: Do bhí a fhios agam cuma éigin gur choigríoch tu. Agus cadé an sgeul é anoir?

R: Dré sgeul. Ca’l fear an tighe?

B: Tá sé as baile. Mise bean an tighe seo.

R: Ar mhiste leat fios a anma agus a shloinneadh d’fiarfaighe dhíot?

B: Ní miste go deimhin. Maidhc mac an Gobbáin aimn m’fhir-se agus an Gobbán féin fear an tighe. Thall sa tír sin ar b’as duit-se dóibh. Ag tógháil chaisleáin do rí Shean-Shasna atáid. Badh chóir go mbeidís réidh leis anois, nó mara bhfuilid, táid siad lán leis. Beid said abhaile anois chugham gan stad.

R: Sidé áit díreach do bhí mé do lorg. Dar ndóigh, mise rí Shean-Sasna.

B: Mhaiseadh an eadh? Agus cionnus atá Maidhc agus athair mo Chéile?

R Táid said marthaineach.

B: Feach sin anois agus eagla ormsa go mbeadh droch-bhail orra, nó mí-ádh eigin insan áit fhiadhain sin thall...Agus cionnus atáid na prataidhe agaibh i mbliadhna?

R: Ia mhaiseadh, níor bhfiú leat a bhaint iad...

B: Ia mhaiseadh, is mar sin átáid again féin...Agus tusa an rí, a deir tú liom.

R: Is mé a mbasa.

B: Nach deas duit é sin anois. Agus cionnus átá do chéird-se ag dul chun cinn?

R: O mhaiseadh cuibhseach. Cadé an mhath dham a bheith ag gearán?

B: Dár ndóigh is fíor dhuit. Sceim a’s sceón i gcomhnaidhe orainn go léir, cabhair ó Dhia chughainn. Agus a mbíonn mórán ort, mar sin?

R: Ia bíonn, a bhean.

B: Cadé an sort oibre ar aon chor é?

R: Riaghluadh agus smachtughadh daoine,

B: O, cionnus a riaghluigheann tú iad?

R: An bhfuil turnip agat, nó práta? Seadh, taisbeáin dom an cnócar sin. Seo anois, bíonn m’ubhall ríogh ar láimh liom agus mo shlat rioghadha, reachta agus rachmuis sa láimh eile. Mar seo a ghabhaim ansin. Sin riaghlughadh dhuit.

Ia! Massa, is ait an cleas agat é. Do thiocfainn féin cortha dhe. Agus cionnus dhéineann tú a smachtughadh?

R: Sé sin, creachadh ropaire agus bithbheanacha, agus cur droch-bhan ar a leas.

B: Maiste mhaiseadh, ní fuiris duit é sin do dheanamh.

R: Ní fuiris, ach do dheanainn é.

B: Droch-bhean do chur ar a leas!

R: Seadh a mhaiste.

B: Agus cionnus do dhéanhá é?

R: Ar mh’anam, níl aoinne is fearr d’inneósadh duit é ná an té ná fuair a fhoghlaim gan mhúineadh: sé sin mise. Dar ndóigh, do bhí carn ban agam féin agus do chuirinn ar a leas diaidh ar dhiaidh iad. ...Is amhlaidh b’éigean dom a leasaughadh  ansin, crochadh beag do bhaint asta ar dtúis agus a gceann do scrios díobh ‘ina dhiaidh sin le claidheamh.

B: O bho. Dia linn!

R: Ia, a bhean a chroidhe, do bhainfeadh sé fáscadh as na haeibh (na heanna) agat sceula mo bhan-sa agus ar ghabhas tríd acu.

B: (leí féin: Seun agus rian na croise ceusta eadram agus é. Alpaire gan taise gan truagh ar nós cránach muice. Scríosamhnach (scríosúnach) an bháis d’imirt ar dhaoinidh bochta gan suím gan cuimhneamh. Mhaiseadh, go bhfóire Dia ar mo mhuintir bhoicht-se atá ag pléidhe leis thall. Ach ní fheadar faoi’n donas cadé an fuadar atá faoi anois. Mhaiseadh, nach agam-sa atá an lad ann.) Seadh, b’uathbhásach an sceul é , is dócha.

R: O, ná bí ag caint, a bhean. Do bhrisfeadh sé do chroidhe, gan ach iad do chomhaireamh thart, agus na bliadhanta fiara fuara, agus foighneamh gan foighne agus saoghal gan strus. Do bheadh sé ró dhian ort, a bhean an tighe, innsint mo chreach agus fad-tuirse mo scéil go léir duit. Ach gur bh’éigeann dom mór-sheisear díobh do chur díom le claidheamh. Agus is baoghal liom go gcaithfe mé an ceann atá aois agam do leasughadh aríst...Fuspar, a bhean an tighe,  Má bheidh túsa i’d bhaintreabhaich choidhche, is aithnid dam buachaill deas macánta thiomchioll mo shaghas-sa d’fhear, slighe mhaireachtana aige agus ní hí maireachtain an chnocadóra í.

B: (Leí féin: Massa, ní hail liom bean gan cheann ar mo chineadh, ach mo leun! Ca bhfíos dam nach baintreabhach cheana mé?) Seadh anois, a rí caithfead-sa dul ar lorg an aisil atá ar sceachrán siar an bóthar uaim.

R: ...b’é mo dhearmhad nár chuimhnigheas go dtí anois air. Seadh, a bhean an tighe, is é a thug i leith mé ach ar theachtaireacht ó’t fhear-sa agus ó athair do chéile agus faoi dhéin na húirlise si a dtugtar “cor in aghaidh an chaim agus cam in aghaidh an choir” uirthi...

 

Tuigeann sí conas tá an scéal: go ndúirt a fear féin leis an rí dul ar lorg an ruda sin (bréag-uirlis) chun go chuirfeadh sí an rí faoi ghlas. A r ndóigh, mhealleann sí isteach i gcófra chun breith ar an rud atá uaidh é, agus dúnann an clár (doras) air, sa tslí gur ghiall é féin nó go scaoiltear amach as priosiún an rí a fear féin agus athair a chéile.

Jewel and Pulse

 

Jewel  and Pulse

First, the jewel…

Another great and essential book is Osborn Bergin’s Irish Bardic Poetry, published by the Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies in 1970. The poems and translations were originally published between 1918 and 1926 in Studies, and the great long essay on Bardic poetry was given in 1912. There are 66 poems, including 11 attributed to the tenth-century queen Gormlaith.

Bergin (Ó hAimhirgin) was another interesting fellow, and knew the poetry better than any one, back when it was just being rediscovered and still today. He was known to have a “pathological fear of making a mistake” and so published very little when he was alive, at least after he became a serious scholar. He did publish a book of poetry in Irish in 1918, Maidean i mBéarra, in which he includes a poem, if I remember correctly, in amhrán metre whose metrical pattern satirizes a Dubliner’s mispronunciations of Irish. So he wasn’t always dry and serious, at least not about everything.

The selection of poems in the book is very good and enjoyable, and the translations help explicate the sometimes convoluted language.

I’ll draw attention to one poem entitled The Dead Wife by Bergin, and attributed to Muireadhach Albannach (ÓDàlaigh), an Irish poet who led an adventurous life and ended up fleeing to Scotland where he established the very important Mac Mhuirich bardic family. The poem survives in only one manuscrtipt, the 16^th century Book of the Dean of Lismore, written in the Perthshire Highlands. Perthshire is on the very border of Highlands and Lowlands. Whether that has anything to do with the fact that the Dean and his brother didn’t know how to write Irish and used an adaptation of Lowland English written language no one knows. It is very likely he wrote from oral dictation, though, because, well, look at this:

 

Marrwn di scarre rwmsy a ryir,

Callin zlan di bynnsy sin noye…

 

M’anam do sgar riom-sa a-raoir,

Calann ghlan dob ionnsa i n-uaigh:

 

Many of the poems in the manuscript are by poets from Ireland, written in Ireland about Irish people, which demonstrates once more that Ireland and the Highlands were one cultural area, one people, until say, the 16th century.

So there is an excuse to take an interest in Scottish Gaelic literature etc. It offers further insight into Irish culture and literature, and it is often great.

Anyway, here is my translation of some of the poem in question.

 

My soul left me last night,

a fair dear body is in the grave;

a sweet gentle bosom was taken from us

with a single linen sheet around it.

 

 

M' anam do sgar riomsa a-raoir,

calann ghlan dob ionnsa i n-uaigh;

rugadh bruínne maordha min

is aonbhla lin uime uainn.

 

            A beautiful fine flower was taken

            away from the weak fragile stem:

            my heart’s treasure has bent down;

            the fruitful branch of that house yonder.

 

            I am alone tonight, oh God;

            this is an evil crooked world I see;

            lovely was the weight of the young body

            that was here last night, oh King.

 

            I mourn for that bed over there,

            my pallet  (unclear in manuscript)

            I saw a glorious and noble form

            with coiling hair lying on you, oh bed.

 

            I shared my bed, half and half,

            with a woman whose eyes were serene;

            there was no likeness, except the flower of the hazel,

            to the brown haired, womanly, melodious shadow.

 

            Maol Mheadha of brown eyebrows,

            was my vessel of mead here with me;

            the shadow that parted from me was my very heart;

            a jewel-like flower, exhausted, has bent down.

 

My body has gone from my control,

            and now belongs to her:

            I am a body divided in two parts now

            since the departure of the serene lovely fair one.

 

            She’s half my feet, half my side;

            oh face like the white thorn flower,   

            no one was truer to her than I;

            she’s half my eyes, half my hand.      

 

            The maiden like a candle is half my body;

            your judgment is bitter to me, oh King;

            I am weak in longing for her voice--

            she was the true other half of my soul….

 

(There are many more stanzas.)

 I was going to also discuss Alexander Carmichael and Carmina Gadelica, but that’s something that deserves a post of its own, and I plan to do that next Saturday.

 Meanwhile, the pulse.

One thing that distinguishes older Scottish Gaelic singers who learned their music in the community; distinguishes them from most younger singers, is a characteristic and I hesitate to say, organic “pulse” rhythm that is distinctive and fascinating. (There is a pulse in Irish sean-nòs singing too, of course, but it’s very different and less interesting in my opinion.) I’m a terrible musician, so I won’t try to make out what is actually going on, but something is going on.

There are different facets:

 This is a well-known song made by a woman married to a blacksmith in Strath Glass (east coast) who was killed in the 1745 uprising.

Another from Flora MacNeill: a snippet of another well know lament.

Ishbel MacAskil is also unfortunately dead, but was a fantastic singer from Lewis. I don't know what "it" is exactly, but she has it.

It's also a question of voice production. Listen to the difference between traditional singers and then some people singing a waulking song with modern voices. What is great becomes banal.

And now, to finish, for something completely different:

If there are mispellings or simple stupidity in this post, I will correct them tomorrow.

Treasure

 

          

         Not to discount the “treasure” status of the old birch and ash out front and the stream out back, but I want to mention a book that I have found particularly rewarding and interesting.

There are novels I have fallen in love with: crown jewels of story. Many have fallen by the wayside as years have passed, mostly because I grew more experienced with the world and developed better critical sense as well. I could count on the fingers of one hand the novels whose appeal has lasted.

           There are other books – mostly collections of Irish and Scottish Gaelic literature of various sorts – that remain cauldrons of plenty and delight, no matter how many times I look into them.

One is not actually a book, or wasn’t until recently.

Frances Tolmie was born in the MacLeod country in Skye in 1840 into a family of the indigenous Gaelic “middle class” of the period. These “tacksmen” were often the former minor clan nobility and sept leaders, become slightly prosperous large tenants in the new economic system. (Ordinary people often held land from them, in turn.)

Her father was a merchant who died when she was four, and the family mostly lived after that with her mother’s brother in Skye or with Frances’ older brothers when they married, in Strontian and Ross-shire. Frances belonged to the last “tacksman” generation  that spoke Gaelic as their everyday language, and though she was educated by a private tutor in English, she taught herself to read Gaelic.

Why does any of this matter? From childhood, she took a strong interest in Gaelic song and poetry, and beginning with her mother’s lullabies etc., picked up the songs she heard around her and wrote them down. She kept on learning songs all her life, most notably with two old women  who accompanied her on walking journeys supervising a MacLeod-sponsored knitting project in Skye from 1861.

    One of them, Oighrig Ros,  was “rather feeble-minded in practical life, but with a poetical soul...A kind creature, but wild-looking, and apt to turn crazy if unduly provoked.”  Frances learned a number of informal “women’s” songs from her: one about the Gruagach, and another Slán gu’n Tig Aonachan, as well as a waulking song etc.

Another important source was Janet Anderson from Srath and later and very importantly, Máirí Ránuill (Mary Ross) of the Trotternish (MacDonald) district, born about 1848, who had learned old Ossianic ballads from her father and waulking songs from older women.

As an old woman herself, Frances was persuaded to publish some of her songs in The (English) Journal of the Folk-Song Society, Volume IV, 1914. The collection is pretty unique in that it focuses on Songs of Occupation”  (ie. cradle songs, nurse’s songs, Puirt a Beul, waulking songs, reaping, rowing and milking), rather than on more formal songs.  Many of these were learned in the first half of the nineteenth century from women who lerned them in the 18th century, and the songs are mostly much older than that. Most of these are, as I mentioned, “women’s songs, ” and there are 105 of them. Music is included in staff notation.

There is a later collection that includes similar songs (Margaret Fay Shaw’s Folksongs and Folklore of South Uist) but the old stuff was fast disappearing in the intervening century, and Frances’ collection is much much fuller, and derives from an insider, not a collector. It really is a window into the old culture, and the songs are the sorts of the things you’ll find nowhere else. Nothing comparable exists in Irish.

Why? Irish civilization was wrecked, even at the community level, much earlier. There was also no Irish-speaking nineteenth century “middle class” (except in Kilkenny where they spoke Irish, but took no interest in the culture). Ascent into big farmer status and security by definition implied English language and revulsion toward Irish.

(There was an Irish-speaking middle class, also remnants of minor nobility, in a few areas in the first half of the 18th century, and it was those areas that the Irish manuscript tradition/Irish literature/historical lore etc, were reestablished after the wreck of the 17th century

Frances died in 1926 and didn’t publish anything else. The Folk Song Society collection stayed fairly obscure, and, as far as I can see, was not much drawn on by younger singers. It has recently been republished as a book Gun Sireadh, Gun Iarraidh (Without Seeking, Without Trying/Looking) available from the Scottish Gaelic Books Council. I haven’t seen it, but I presume it’s actually mostly in English, like the original.

There is a 1977 biography by Ethal Bassin (The Old Songs of Skye: Routledge) that preserves a lot of information about Frances and gives examples of songs and classifies them by source and date of collection, but it’s really only of interest (in my opinion) to people who care about those things.

Anyway, the collection itself is treasure.

            There is almost no point in giving samples of the songs. They are simple, for the most part, and their power does not lie in words alone. Unlike many of the old “big” songs, there is no complex development of story and emotion. They are vignettes.

            Their power derives rather from harmony of words and music: so much so that it is almost inaccurate to speak about harmony. For there to be harmony, there must be two or more things in relation, and these songs, as Somhairle MacGilleain wrote (Ris a’ Bhruthaich, Acair, 1985: p 120: Some Thoughts About Gaelic Poetry,) “...the tunes themselves are great, very great, or simply ineffable...they seem like exhalations from the words, as if the very words created the tunes. "

            He’s talking about the “big” songs of the 16^th, 17^th and 18^th centuries, but it is equally true of these hearthside songs. I wish I could point you toward YouTube recordings, but I haven’t been able to find any of these songs there. I haven’t looked in the Tobar a' Dualchais online archive of folklore collection recordings, and maybe I should...

             I am including the Alan Stivell version of Tha Mi Sgith (a fairy song and maybe the best known today of the songs in the collection), despite the fact his Gaelic gets a little strange, and despite the guitar solos, because the other versions are stuffy Mod-type parlor music, and at least Stivell’s doesn’t smother the tune.

            Here are the words: There are two “verses.”

Tha mi sgith, s mi leam fhín, chuile lá a buain na rainnich. Tha mi sgith, s mi leam fhín chuile lá im ónar...chuile lá daonnan.

 Tha mí sgith, etc., Cúl an tomáin, bráigh an tomáin, cúl an tomáin bhóidheach...

 I am sad and weary  alone, every day cutting bracken: I am sad and weary alone, every day alone...Every day forever.

I am weary etc. back behind the knoll, up on the knoll, behind the beautiful knoll...

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you!)

Here’s hoping some of these things survives the years to come.